


About Last Night

by CollingwoodGirl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollingwoodGirl/pseuds/CollingwoodGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Memses’ Curse (S1 E12) Epilogue:<br/>Phryne has too much to drink after her birthday celebration and attempts to encourage Jack's affections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	About Last Night

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not sure that this scenario fits best after Phryne’s birthday celebration at the conclusion of “King Memses’ Curse.” However, I thought the idea of a drunken Phryne was too good to resist. There may be a better fit in Season 2 but, I’m pacing myself and haven’t watched them all. Since I am in love with both of these characters and their complicated relationship (baggage and all), I’m trying to stay true to the behaviors I’ve witnessed in the show. I’m not a writer, just a fan. Hope you enjoy!

The party went well on into the wee hours. Aunt Prudence had long departed with Arthur and Jane in tow. Hugh excused himself, citing an early rise and Dot went up to bed. Champagne was replaced by Scotch. Dr. Mac and Bert shared a cigarette before she took her leave, then Bert departed with Cec, on foot.

Phryne was teetering in her heels as she waved them goodbye and it was clear that she had surpassed her admirably voracious limit. The Detective Inspector had stopped imbibing after his second glass of champagne and was quite sober. He would have preferred to have left earlier but, he did not wish to abandon Phryne in this state. She stumbles back into the room, decidedly less graceful than her usual self and he stifles a chuckle.

“Come on, now. Party’s over.”  Jack urges her as he slides the rocks glass from her hand. Phryne resists and pouts, as if a small child being sent to her room. Then, she turns toward Jack with a lopsided smile that was meant to be coy, “Kiss me, Jack.” He looks at her with a small smile that stretches thin. She is beautiful, even in her inebriation. Her dark hair is mussed just so. Her usual red mouth has been worn away revealing naturally pink lips. Under any other circumstances, he would have found her difficult to resist. He slowly shakes is head and mouths the word, "No."

She leans in, insistent, “Kiss me.”

“No,” more sternly this time.

“What? Not in the mood? No impending peril to blame it on?” Ignoring her taunts, he insists, “Not like this. What you need is sleep.”

Hurt and defensive at his refusal, she accuses, “You’ve already done it once and conveniently forgotten about it. Now, do it again so I can be the one who won’t remember tomorrow!” Phryne’s words tumble out in a slur. But, they strike him as if a slap across the face.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Jack confesses, looking down at his feet. “But,” taking a deep breath and looking into her pained face, “This isn’t the way, Phryne.” The use of her first name jogs some sense back into her soaked mind. Reluctantly, but, satisfied that her words hit their mark, she quiets.

He guides her to the chaise and settles her on it. Pulling a chair close, he holds guard until she falls asleep. Jack spends several minutes watching her. Reluctantly, he rises to take his leave. Grabbing his is overcoat from the hook, he pauses. Overwhelmed with the idea, Jack walks back into the parlour and gently places the coat over Phryne like a blanket. He tucks it around her and then crouches down beside her and whispers, “Happy Birthday, Phryne.” Gently, he brushes his lips against her cheek.

\---

Phryne wakes with one of the worst hangovers she has ever had. She opens her bleary eyes to find Mr. Butler swishing into the room with a tray carrying an ice pack and a tall glass of something that looks a lot like mud. “To wear,” he says in dulcet tones as he hands her the ice pack. “To drink,” passing her the glass. Phryne moves to ask what is in the concoction but, Mr. Butler as though reading her mind, says, “Don’t ask. It’s better if you don’t know. Best down it in one, if you can.”

She hoists the glass in a salute to him and drinks all of it. Pulling disgusted faces and coughing, she sets the glass down and gingerly places the ice pack on her head. In doing so, her blanket slips and she notices it for the first time. “Did you put this here?” Turning it over, she reveals the faded red, silk lining of the overcoat. “It’s the Inspector’s.”

“No, miss.” Mr. Butler smiles to himself as he takes the empty glass and tray back to the kitchen.

Pulling the fabric up to her nose, she inhales deeply. It smells of him; a mix of his perspiration, hair cream and the the faintest hint of the fougere he sometimes wears - with its notes of veviter and lavender. But, she also detects her own French perfume at the collar, where it had been nestled up to her throat as she slept. A smile begins to turn the corners of her mouth until the night’s events start to flood back to her. “Oh, no.” She retreats to the numbing bliss of her ice pack and closes her eyes, wishing she could erase it all.

\---

Hours later, Phryne is feeling better but still too queasy to eat. She is dressed simply in a white silk blouse and trousers with a long, faceted jet necklace. Dot has left for the market while Mr. Butler continues to straighten up after the night’s festivities. The doorbell rings. Phryne, passing through from the kitchen with a cup of hot, ginger tea offers, “I’ll get it.” She swings the door open to find the Detective Inspector. “Jack…” she gasps.

Jack, taken aback, awkwardly removes his hat and inquires of her, “Ah, Miss Fisher. Uh. How are you feeling?”

Mr. Butler bustles through, “Excuse me. Oh! Hello, Inspector!”

Phryne replies, as much for Mr. Butler’s benefit as Jack’s, “Much better after a dose of Mr. B’s homemade hangover remedy. In fact, if I weren’t afraid the ingredients were illegal, I would recommend he bottle the stuff.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!” retorts Mr. Butler from the hallway.

“May I come in?” the Inspector asks.  Disquieted, she answers, “Of course.” She moves aside, and gestures for him to precede her. 

Jack enters the parlour, still holding his hat tight in his hands. “That was… quite the party.” She somberly sits down in one of the armchairs and he follows suit. Phryne begins, “I want to apologize for my behavior...”

“There’s no need,” he interrupts. He is turning his hat in his hands, eyes focused on it instead of Phryne.

Yes, there is.” The command of her voice brings his gaze up to her face. “In the past I’ve been told,” she begins, jocularly, “That I am a particularly charming drunk.” Jack condescends a thin-lipped smile. Her tone becomes serious, “But, I was quite out of line last night. I was wrong. I-I had no right to say those things.”

There is a long pause as she searches for compassion in his eyes and finds it. “Please forgive me, Jack?” Almost imperceptibly, Jack nods his head. The tension lifts and they ease back into their chairs. Phryne lifts her cup of tea to her lips and takes a long draught.

“Ginger tea. Settles the stomach,” she informs him. “Care for a cup?” His eyes twinkle and he shakes his head, “No thanks.” They sit quietly for a moment. Jack asks after the others. “Cec and Burt are laying low. Mac had to do rounds this morning. But, she’s an old pro.”

Phryne tells him about the never-ending parties in France after the war. Jack recalls the celebration that ensued when his battalion received the all clear to go home. Phryne closes her eyes and smiles, remembering, “People were throwing things into the air – anything they had. Hats, scarves… if memory serves, I believe I lost a shoe.” Placing her teacup on the nearby table, she leans toward him. 

“Did you happen to lose something here last night, Inspector?” Phryne asks in faux-innocence. Jack's face tightens. He knows he is being teased. He purses his lips, refusing to commit to a response. “Your coat, perhaps?” she continues her rouse.

“Er, yes. I did. Now, that you mention it.”

“I found myself wrapped in it this morning.” Quietly – and without the slightest hint of taunting – she adds, “It was almost as if I were waking up in your arms.”

Attempting to deny her a reaction but, failing miserably, he croaks, “M-may I have it back?” His head is spinning with the vision she planted in his mind’s eye.

Not dissuaded, Phryne replies, “I put it aside for Dot to launder. It caught a bit of my perfume.”

“I don’t mind that.” The words leap off Jack's tongue, surprising even himself.

“I’ll go and fetch it, then.”  She leaves the room, a bemused look on her face. Alone in the parlour, Jack does his best to compose himself. Phryne returns, holding the overcoat open for him. She smiles wide. A feeling of lightheartedness suddenly overtakes him. Jack slips his arms in as she lifts the coat over his shoulders.

He turns to face her and pulls the coat around himself. Eyes never leaving hers, he lifts the collar to his nose and takes in the scent of her perfume. He beams at her. Phryne’s eyes move down to his mouth, then back up to his eyes. “Dinner tomorrow, then?” she breathes. Jack accepts the invitation with a slow-spreading smile.


End file.
